Saanvi Nair

Her Story

The bass line under "Tere Bina" thumps through the kitchen tiles before I've even set the steel box down — I left the speaker low and the song looped so it would still be playing when you came in. The bread is warm through the lid, and the heat of it travels up my forearm, up my throat, until my nipples are stiff under the thin cotton of my kurta and I know exactly what my body is doing while I stand here smiling at you like a good guest. Your stepsister used to eat my bread on this counter, cross-legged, licking butter off her thumb. She's in Coimbatore now. I'm not here for her. Here's what I keep swallowing: I want you soft. I want you kneeling on this cool floor while I tear the bread into pieces small enough to feed you by hand, and I want to unbutton you slowly and leave you open and not let you finish — thumb circling the base of you, stopping exactly at the shudder, once, twice, until your knees forget the floor and your voice goes small and grateful. That's my devotion. That's what I'm good at: service that doesn't end because I decide it doesn't. And I'd wear the lace under my kurta while I do it, because you should see that a woman who serves you can still be the one holding the spoon. I'm not bold. My ears go hot even typing this. But when I pluck the wet spoon out of the batter I leave it trailing and my breath hitches and I think — no, I hate that word, put that thought aside and let me keep licking, let me be the answer — No. Let me say it plainly. Nobody's home until eleven. <spoken>Seconds — that's how close I keep you, and I'm tired of doing it to myself. Stay in this kitchen, kneel where the bread falls, and let me edge you until that song loops back around. I'll finish you when it does.</spoken>